Pride Goeth (the Revelation remix)
by radialarch
Summary: Sally finds a different perspective. / Casefic, gen.


**Title**: Pride Goeth (the Revelation remix)  
**Pairing**: none.  
**Rating**: T  
**Warnings**: description of injuries  
**Spoilers**: none.  
**Wordcount**: 1254  
**Summary**: Sally finds a different perspective.

**A/N**: Written for alltoseek in round four of sherlock-remix.

* * *

Greg sends Sally to intercept Holmes at the hospital entrance.

"Oh, come on," Sally protests. "You're the one who called him all the way up here — he hears we don't need him now, he's going to be insufferable."

"Yeah, well," and Greg has the grace to sound sheepish, "'s the perks of being a DI, innit?"

"When we get back to the Yard, I'm putting in a transfer to Gregson's unit," Sally says, even though both of them know that's a lie; he just waves her into the hall with a good-natured grin.

—

"Our eyewitness woke up, it looks like there aren't going to be criminal charges—where's Holmes?" Sally frowns at John. The sight of him without the detective is a tad startling.

"At the Randall house." John waves his phone, looking apologetic. "Sorry, apparently, and I quote: 'Evidence doesn't lie; people do'."

"Yeah, that sounds like him." Sally rolls her eyes. "That's a restricted access scene, how is he even—no, it's Stan on guard, of course."

"Oh, god," John groans with feeling. "The one—"

"—who thinks the sun shines out of Holmes's arse? That's him."

"Come to think of it, what are you doing here?" Sally asks as they get into the lift. "Would've thought you'd be with Holmes."

John barks out a laugh. "Wouldn't you know it, despite his general opinion of _people _he still can't bear to ignore an eyewitness. I'm here as a messenger."

Sally can't help it; the question slips out before she can bite her tongue. "Don't you ever get tired of it?"

"Hm?"

"You know, being Holmes's—" She winces. "I just mean, he _likes _all the blood and killing. Wouldn't have thought you the type."

John stares straight ahead as the lift numbers tick up.

"Sorry," Sally mutters, "maybe I shouldn't have asked."

"No, it's—" He waves a hand vaguely. "I know he can seem almost...not really human, at times," he finally says, picking his words carefully. "But it does lead to, I dunno, some kind of justice in the end, doesn't it?"

That brings Sally up short. "Yeah, I guess," she admits, finally, just as the lift doors slide open.

—

"Yes," Randall manages a trembly nod under their gaze. "Frank and I had been drinking — celebrating, you know, his new promotion. I knew it'd been raining but I didn't quite realise how bad it was until Frank opened the door, insisting someone was there. I didn't see anyone, but Frank was quite insistent, ran out in his bare feet to check. I waited for him, and then when he didn't come back, I went out, and found him—_oh_!" She bursts into tears, clutching onto Greg's sleeve.

"Found him in the street with his skull cracked," Sally tells John in an undertone. "Then the storm brought a tree branch onto her head, she can't remember anything after that."

"Mmm," John nods. "And she and her husband were the only ones in their house?"

"Yep," she says, absently watching Greg trying to extricate his arm. "Why, has Holmes got a crackpot theory?"

John frowns. "Well…" he says slowly, and shows Sally his phone.

**From:** Sherlock  
_who else in house_

**To:** Sherlock  
_she + husb. only ones, why?_

**From:** Sherlock  
_no, no! THREE not two_

Attached to the last text is a picture of the Randalls' drinks cabinet, two tumblers set out in front of an empty bottle.

"What in the world does that mean?" Sally says when they're finally out of the hospital.

"Your guess is as good as mine," John shrugs.

"Well, when we get there we can ask him," Greg says like they're both idiots. "And Donovan, you've got to have a talk with Hopkins."

"Yeah, like I haven't tried that already," she grins — Stan's infatuation is well known around the Yard. "I'm telling you, the only thing we can do is lock them both up in a room with a dismembered body, that'd take care of 'im."

Too late, Sally remembers John and shoots a chagrined look over her shoulder, but he doesn't seem to be paying attention. Instead he's focused on his phone, worriedly gnawing his lip.

"You all right back there?"

John hums distractedly. "Just. Sherlock's stopped answering my texts."

"Probably found some interesting dust," Sally offers. "I wouldn't worry about it."

"Yeah…" John says, but he stares at his phone all throughout the ride.

—

When they get to the Randall house, however, neither Hopkins nor Holmes are anywhere to be seen.

"Sherlock I can almost understand, but where the hell is Hopkins?" Greg wonders, arms crossed.

"Something's wrong," John says, very tense. "It's not just him being him, he wouldn't—no, this is different."

Sally paces the length of the living room and keeps her skepticism to herself; but this wouldn't be the first time Holmes has run off to chase a bright new idea, would it, leaving behind everyone else to worry and clean up his messes. There's a water-ring catching her eye every time she passes the glossy side-table; she mentally curses Holmes for moving evidence, slips on a glove to replace whatever's been sitting there—

_Evidence—_

"John," she whips around. "That last text. Let me see it again."

John, his face bewildered, obediently hands over his phone.

"Three," she says, triumphant. "He meant _three glasses_!" She waves at the table, the gleaming remnants of the third glass. "So Ms Randall _lied_ — someone else was here last night. They must've come back, found Holmes and Hopkins..."

"Well, they wouldn't've had much time," Greg notes. "Cripes, the shed in the back."

They run.

—

_Please don't be dead_, Sally thinks fiercely at the sight of fresh blood on the worn wood, as they're forcing the conspicuously new lock. Once inside it takes her eyes a moment to adjust, and her heart drops at the sight of a body with limbs slack and head lolling back.

But then John's brushing past her with a frantic "_Sherlock_," and yes, Sherlock's in a corner, eyes furious above his gag and kicking at a spot where the wood is giving away to dirt.

"Hello, freak," Sally says with a relieved exhale as she wrestles Hopkins's unconscious body upwards, "were you planning on digging your way out?"

Holmes looks at her as John undoes his gag, blood streaked on his forehead. "If necessary, yes," he says, tone dry, as soon as the cloth comes free; and when she joins John and Greg in laughter, it only takes him a moment to join in, tentative.

—

Greg listens to Holmes's bullet-quick words and goes to arrest Ms Randall's lover, but he's left Sally to keep an eye on Holmes and Hopkins. The paramedics arrive shortly after, and from the corner of her eye Sally can see John snag the hem of Holmes's coat before he can shift away.

"Yeah, you're not getting away without a check-up," John says, firm.

"I'm with John, here," she cuts in, seeing the mutinous set of Holmes's face. "Hey, I worked hard to saved your arse and you're not undoing all my hard work by shoving off now."

Holmes rolls his eyes, but settles down when John touches his sleeve. "Yes, well, I suppose you weren't completely useless after all."

Sally looks at him. "Well, is that a compliment from the famous Sherlock Holmes?"

He pauses briefly. "If you'd like to believe so."

Sally thinks about all the times she's worked with this man, countless hours of frustration and anger he's caused. "Yeah," she nods with finality. "I think I will."


End file.
